The Court of Pentacles
by Gambit Gurl Isis
Summary: Such strange fate you bare, fated of the strange. [Hiatus]
1. Potier de Piper, the Stricken Name

Potier de Piper, The Stricken Name 

                "Periceal! Pantira!" A woman with long raven hair called her compatriots—even in this late hour wherein their death was imminent she still sounded mellifluent in the extreme.  She, in one sharp motion, stabbed her finger with her quill and scrawled a final line in her great book. She stared down at the page before her and a smile twisted the corners of her deep maroon lips upward sinisterly. She turned from the book for a short moment and eyed the empty, and rather dark room about her.

                "You two do not answer me, but your power will be present." She walked past her table and ran her long, pale fingers over black bottles, which bore silver pentacles. "The power of three shall not be denied to any—our coven broken from five by my blood." She knocked a large glass vase off of the table and spilt its black contents on the floor callously. She stepped over the shards of the shattered vase towards her massive, hanging cauldron, which was suspended by a chain from one of the rafters that crossed the ceiling.

                "Dearest Harrison, and Portia, how you two have shattered my world and condemned me." She reached into the great cauldron, her sleeves of layered dark linen and some form of purple sheer material shuffled and singed slightly on the edge of the metal cauldron. From the cauldron she took a hollow glass sphere and a great, white and black candle. She crossed the room once more to a great dragon-shaped burner of oils that stood just a few inches taller than her five-foot seven-inch frame. She placed the sphere within the great dragons claws and the great candle below it, where the dragon's tail curled around to receive such a thing.

                "Percial, Pantira, come to me." She turned and held up her hands—the two bottles on the table shot through the air and snapped to her hands instantly. She threw the two bottles to the ground at her feet and shattered them on the wood floor. From the bottles came two silvery clouds that levitated upwards and were drawn into the hollow center of the glass sphere. Just as the two were sealed, however, the door on the other side of the dim and musky room was broken off of its iron hinges and a massive group of local law enforcement officials poured in.

                "Halte, sorcière!" One of the armed guards shouted and she turned towards them. She stepped forwards, they flinched back slightly and drew their swords, but when she stopped in the center of the great white pentagram on the floor she was quickly grabbed and dragged from the room violently. Very soon she found her arms bound behind her and her head most firmly secured in a noose—she stood on the gallows in the center of the square in Paris, below the looming figure of the Cathedral of St. Etienne.

                "Potier de Piper!" She glanced up and turned her dark blue eyes towards the Archdeacon who held the scroll with her accused crimes written on it and had a bible so convincingly tucked under his right arm. "Piper Potter!" He repeated again, in English, for her as he assumed she spoke little French. "Vous avez commis le crime de la sorcellerie!" He paused once more as she turned her eyes from him and scanned the angry yet fearful crowd of Frenchmen and scattered gypsies. 

                 "You have committed the crime of Sorcery!" The Archdeacon tried to draw her attention to him, and vicariously god, but failed even as he repeated with the boldest voice of his sermons. "Comment parlez-vous en votre faveur?" The crowd went silent and the Archdeacon repeated again. "How speak you in your favor?"

                Piper stared out at the crowd, her eyes slowly surveying each face. Most were mortals though a few were decidedly magical in origin. Those magical were travelers who were either passing through town on accident or whom had come just to see her death—she was not much liked in magical circles and feared in both mortal and immortal—were all turned to watch her hang. As her eyes traveled farther back they met the gaze of a pale man who held a black haired woman in his arms. It was her brother, her dearest brother, Harrison and his newly married wife, and fourth member of Piper's coven, Portia.

                _"Veneficus oraculum! Agnosco, teneo atque pareo Vocis ex Tria! Vita ex neco!"_ Piper hissed the spell at the crowd and many became panicked in the face of such obvious witchcraft. "I put a spell on you…and now you're mine—."

                "NO!" Harrison cried out as the horrified Archdeacon and the executioner pulled the lever that dropped the floor of the gallows out from beneath her. She was quickly cut off, mid-sentence, as she fell and her neck snapped. From her mouth fell two or three drops of blood that hissed and sizzled the moment they hit the ground. The acidic blood released a black vapor that twisted up into the air and disappeared.

                Had he spoken sooner he too would have been charged, but in his silence he released something maleficent on the world. An incantation of that power required more than just a small bit of magic and a scrawling in a book—it required some form of potion, some aid, or some sacrifice along with the power of three. In her own death, she marked both the sacrifice and reunited the three, and in her writings she placed the words to be obeyed. Should her spell of new life ever be fulfilled all those descended of the people in the square would be in jeopardy and, not long after them, the rest of the mortal and wizarding worlds.

                Harrison Potter and the newly renamed Portia Potter took it upon their family line—which ironically was also that which bore the most reviled witch in the history of dark sorcery—would be the protectors of this thing and would prevent its prophecy to be done. The line Potter proudly did this duty for nearly nine hundred and forty years, then the only son of the last aged man of current line left France and moved to England to learn at Hogwarts. From him and his wife—so tragically slain by dark wizards—came one son, and so on carried this curse upon the Potters. Somehow each would leave but one heir and then pass on—yet no one ever really noticed this. By the passage of precisely nine hundred and ninety ninth anniversary of the hanging of Piper Potter there was, once again, only one remaining Potter—Harry Potter.

                As luck would have it, however, Harry and the rest of his class of rather disinterested students had been forced into a sort of History fieldtrip only a week before Halloween.

                "Children gather around, no shoving now, that's right," the tour guide, Madame Alésage, repeated in a dull monotone as the group gathered around the large display that formed one of the poorly lit relics in the Museum of Magic, Paris. A few students moaned but there was definitely no shoving to try and see what any of these displays actually were—save that done by Hermione Granger but she was quickly allowed to the front as one student traded with her gleefully and moved to the back.

                "I'm sure you've all heard the legend of the _Triad de Paris_," Madame Alésage droned on and the crowd around her remained silent. 

                "I haven't Madame," Hermione said after a few moments and the rest of the students started muttering curses about her name. Already they had been in this building for four hours and they didn't look forward to another four as the slow, boring tour guide explained some old fable to Hermione _'the-girl-who-somehow-lived-through-Newt-level-Arithmancy-just-to-torment-them-all'_ Granger.

                "Well then, Miss Granger, you might find this interesting," the old woman droned and a few members of the group pondered casting a silence spell on their ears.

                "Oh! Now, Maria, we need you back over by the register!" A chipper young woman with glasses that drew attention from her mousy face and red hair that was pulled back haphazardly interrupted and pushed the old tour guide away before she could get out another word—already the group liked this woman more than she could know. "Sorry dears, couldn't risk having Maria tell you that particular tale—she always kills it in her poor English.

                "The story goes like this, sit down if you like, you don't need to see this haggard old rope and skeleton to know anything," the young woman said and motioned to the floor—the majority of the large group sat down and made themselves more comfortable for the story that she would, hopefully, tell swiftly so they could leave.

                "Back hundreds of years ago there was a coven in the heart of Paris, this very building, in fact, that was called the _Court of Pentacles_, wherein four witches and one wizard resided. Their names, still written on the wards around the ceiling of the upper levels, were Portia Grimrose, Periceal Maleffe, Pantira Sutrape, and Harrison Potter." The woman waved her hands about mystically and a good many of the students began looking for the wards she spoke of—naturally Hermione Granger's hand shot up into the air. "Yes?"

                "You said there were four witches and one wizard, that makes five, who is the other witch?" Hermione asked and the woman stared at her.

                "We're not entirely sure, you see, as her name was stricken from all records on the day she was hanged—her death is recorded as the death of the devil." The woman explained and then continued on with her story. "The _Court of Pentacles_ was infamous for being the source of woe and dread for all those who'd heard of them—it was said that without aid they could travel unseen in the night, they could brew potions beyond reckoning, and they stole children in total silence.

                "As the legend goes, however, upon the eve of Samhain, Harrison and Portia defected from the court and turned them in to the muggle church as witches." The woman paused again as Hermione Granger's hand blocked her view of the group. "Yes?"

                "Didn't anyone magical object to this?" Hermione asked and the woman smirked eerily.

                "No, the magical community at the time, as scattered as they were, were just as afraid of the _Court of Pentacles_ as the muggles were—the court didn't see any distinction between the mortal, magical, or immortal—they thought themselves above them all." The woman saw Hermione and a few of the other students pale slightly and continued in a mystifying tone. "In an attempt to prevent themselves from being turned in the remaining three witches slaughtered massive numbers of children and, with their blood, tried to cast a spell that would turn back time. As their spell was on the very edge of being cast, however, Harrison and Portia vanquished Periceal and Pantira. The final witch however, escaped, and made it back here.

                "In one night, she reclaimed the souls of both of her loyal comrades, wrote a spell in her great book, and brewed a potion that would supposedly bring her and them once more to life—to take out revenge and reclaim their hold over the world of magic." She paused and her smirk grew as she noticed that they were hanging on her every word. "Just as she finished the spell and item that would bring her back, however, she was captured and taken to the very square outside, just before Notre Dame, to be hanged."

                "I thought this was supposed to be the tale of _Triad de Paris_, not _The Court of Pentacles Revisited_." Draco Malfoy turned up his nose slightly and the woman at the front of the room locked eyes with him.

                "Just as the Archdeacon of the Cathedral demanded her confession she whispered words so evil and powerful that they were not to be repeated in whole by any muggle or wizard. In her spell, the last one she wove on Earth, she proclaimed that the _Power of Three_ would command the magics of the world. The group, therefore, was referred to as the _Bloody Triad_, or _Triad de Paris_ and has been for nearly a thousand years." She clapped her hands together as she finished and a few of the students took some amusement at the fact that Draco Malfoy jumped slightly. "It was rumored a few hundred years back that some of the witches of Salem managed to summon one of the three to them, but there was no proof to this allegation."

                "You said this house was the one they stayed in?" Harry asked while the rest of the students began to converse over the story and how ridiculous it was—though they would all fear it for some time.

                "Yes it is—why you're Harry Potter, aren't you?" She responded and pushed up her glasses as she took a better look at him. Harry nodded slightly and her expression went mischievous. "Well, well, well, this is a special occasion isn't it?" She fell silent and leaned forward over the sitting group. "Normally I wouldn't offer this to anyone, but since we have a Potter here I think it might be apropos. Would you lot like to see the coven's workshop, downstairs?" She asked and arched an eyebrow. 

                The group, as a whole, responded enthusiastically despite the gnawing fear about them. The woman who'd told them the story waggled her eyebrows slightly, smiled, and waited as the students scrambled to their feet. The building had been expanded on, it seemed, as they were led far back into the older looking chambers. Many of the students reconsidered whether or not they actually doubted the story as they approached the dark door that led down into the cellar of the building.

                "This area of the house hasn't been entered by any save scholars for nearly a thousand years, so everything is exactly as it was back when the spell was cast." The woman pushed open the door and a rush of cold air blew out at them before sucking back into the hall with an ominous sort of sigh. None of the students moved forward towards the dark, ominous alcove until the woman prompted them.  "If any of you revile traveling to possible doom, I suggest you go back and just look at the remnants of the unnamed head of the coven—back by that tattered old rope display."

                A few students laughed and tried to make it look like they thought themselves too cool, didn't want to get dirty, or were allergic to something that was behind the doors. Needless to say all but about eight students turned back and walked away from the door swiftly. The few that stayed—Hermione Granger, Harry Potter, Ron Weasley (who was trying frantically to convince his friends that he had an allergy), Draco Malfoy (who only stayed to keep an eye on Potter), his crones Crabbe and Goyle, and a rather snarky girl names Tracey Davis—watched the dark hall and entered, slowly, single file, after the woman who'd led them there.

                The hall was darker than most, as it had no torches nor any muggle lights to shed anything to it. The only light down the length of the hall, and the stairs at the end of it, was that coming off of the tour woman's lighter. When they reached the end of the stairs she warned them to watch their steps, there was a door on the ground ahead and they would probably hurt themselves tripping over it—this section of the house had not been made safe for tourists. The students stepped over the door and stopped in the looming pitch dark of the cellar—not one of them could see a thing until the tour woman lit up one of the massive wall torches and cast golden light on the massive room.

                To say the room was eerie was a severe understatement. The room had not been lived in for nearly a thousand years and yet everything was unmoved. No spiders gathered in the corners, no rats on the floor, in fact there appeared to be a distinct lack of life in any form in this room, though everything bore a very healthy coating of dust. Off to the right of the room, by the torch, was a large white pentacle painted on the ground, but in the center of the room, where the remnants of what was probably a glass container of some sorts and a pile of black dust lay there was what looked to be a partially covered Celtic triangle. Just off to the side of this triangle, flush against the only clean wall in the room, was a pedestal with a large, dust covered book and off from that a monolithic cauldron that bore that same triangle.

                The walls were covered with shelves that had been packed with more items and spell books than most of Hogwarts, there were cages and skeletal looking preserved herbs hanging from the ceiling, and several places on the floor were covered in broken glass. Most spectacular, and peculiar in this room was the great oil burner that sat against the northern corner. It was a dragon that was poised for flight—it stood on only the very tips of its massive hind legs, its eyes and head were pointed down at the floor before it, it's tail was curled around below it, and its wings wrapped around to form a sort of division, nearly like the Gryffin before Dumbledore's office. In the coil of its tail stood a massive, white candle with black writing—Latin—and above that, in the dragon's claws was a dusty glass orb.

                "That, students, is the _Draco de Paris_." The woman cautiously stepped around the edge of both the pentacle and the triangle but stopped once within five feet of the ominous thing. 

                "You're referring to the dragon that attacked Paris?" Hermione asked as she crossed the room, heedless of the ancient symbols on the floor.

                "Actually, according to the years, this dragon came long before that dragon."

                "Just how many years have passed since it happened?" Harry asked as he crossed the room, entranced by the curious sphere in the dragon's claws. "Since the last witch was hanged, I mean?"

                "This Halloween it will be an even one thousand." The woman replied and turned to check on the other five students. They stood, wordlessly, in the alcove of the door. Abruptly Tracey Davis fainted and hit the floor with an audible thud. "Mon Dieu!" The woman quickly rushed across the room, picked up the unconscious girl, and turned back to the others. "Do **not** touch **anything**!" She warned acerbically and took the fallen girl up the stairs.

                "Well, Potter, I must say the ancestral home make's Weasley's little hovel look like my manor," Malfoy drawled and absently stared at the filthy old room.

                "Have some respect, _Malfoy_, this house is older than your entire family line—you lot were probably muggles back in the nine hundreds," Hermione spat back at him acerbically as she moved to investigate _Draco de Paris_.

                "Bold statement from a filthly little mudblood." Malfoy seethed and Ron spun around to face him.

                "You take that back, Malfoy!" Ron drew his wand and Hermione swiftly grabbed his arm.

                "That's alright Ron!" Hermione spoke through gritted teeth—the insult still bothered her, but her awe and love of this historically enriching place wouldn't allow her to have it harmed by any errant spells.

                "Finally come to accept your title, aye, Mudblood?" Malfoy smirked and both his cronies guffawed absently. Ron pulled free from Hermione and aimed at Malfoy—Malfoy quickly drew his wand to strike.

                "**Ico!**"

                "**Conjunctivitis!**" 

                Both Malfoy and Ron let loose their spells at the same time, Hermione and Harry shouted for them to stop, but there was no need. The spells, only a few inches free of either boy's wand fizzled out to nothing. Everyone stared in awe, fight forgotten momentarily, and stepped back towards the walls of the room as the white symbols on the ground began to take on a dim luminescence. The light from the circles on the ground lifted up into the air as a sort of fog and that fog traveled across the room until it was absorbed by _Draco de Paris_.

                "Fascinating…." Hermione stepped away from the wall and moved cautiously towards the statue. "Ron, Harry, cast something else—see what happens." Hermione, apparently, was so entranced by the obvious sinkhole in the magical fabric of the world that she didn't stop to consider how bad of an idea that might have been.

                "**Diffinido!**" The two boys jumped as Malfoy cast the spell directly at Hermione—just as the others though, it fizzled out and caused a glowing trail of dust to travel from the floor to the statue. Malfoy was vexed, Harry and Ron were irate, Crabbe and Goyle were befuddled and stupid, and Hermione was astonished and enthralled.

                "Come over here! Look at this," Hermione commanded in general, she was completely oblivious to the obvious, albeit failed, attack on her personage. Needless to say very few of them actually wanted to cross the room towards the malevolent statue, but Harry and Ron did anyway. (And seeing as Potter and Weasley weren't going to chicken out Malfoy hardly had any other course of action but to cross as well, though he wisely stayed away from the symbols on the floor.)

                "What is it?" Ron asked and wrinkled his nose slightly as he stared up at the hissing form of the six-foot-tall dragon.

                "It looks to me like a scented oil burner, but there's no basin—see, just this dusted old crystal ball." Hermione motioned to the dragon's claws where a dirty, dust coated ball resided.

                "What happened when the spells were sucked in?" Harry asked and shot a glare at Malfoy—Malfoy just smirked in response.

                "I think I saw the ball flash slightly, but the spells were too small," Hermione shook her head and stepped back from the statue. She drew her wand and, despite the mutterings of 'This is a bad idea' she swished it through the air and cast a large spell. "**Patronus!**"

                From the tip of Hermione's wand came a rush of silver and, for a time, an otter was formed before her. After only a moment the otter broke apart into a cloud and, rather than being sent through the floor, the glittering dust flowed straight into the glass ball that was held in the Dragon's claws. Hermione stepped forwards again and reached out to the sphere. Her fingers grazed it, knocking the dust off of a small portion, and found that there was a great silvery light underneath it all, coming from the center of the orb.

                "Hermione!" Harry grabbed her hand before she could set it wholly on the mesmerizing ball and pulled her back from it. "I really don't think that touching that is a good idea…."

                "What's this say?" Ron interrupted Harry's warning and motioned to the large, perhaps two-foot tall candle that rested beneath the ball—it bore black writings in Latin, but Ron wasn't nearly fluent enough to actually read them.

                As Harry, Ron, and Hermione gathered around the candle to inspect it the disinterested Draco Malfoy spotted something of great interest. Sitting on a pedestal, engulfed in the shadows, and covered with dust was a great book. As Malfoy took up the book, which had a cover sewn of black hide—it felt unnatural and somehow cold—the trio studied over the candle. Malfoy opened the book to the last marked page and, seeing as he had been trained in Latin by his particularly proud pure-blooded mother, he understood the words on the page with much swifter powers of comprehension than Hermione (whom had only recently become fluent) did with the candle.

                "Hac evasto Vocis ex Tria," Hermione paused and her mind ran the words over in her head. "Here lies the Voices of Three."

                "That can't be all of it," Ron stared at the extensive writing on the candle and looked back at Hermione. "Read the rest." Just as this request was made, Malfoy was finishing the first of the two pages and had yet to get to the dire part.

                "Aduro ea flamma is ex novel vita—"

                "Granger! Shut up!" Malfoy shouted as he finished the first half of the first page, unfortunately as Hermione had already read over the end of the sentence and only those two phrases repeated along the length of the candle, the spell was completed. A warm wind entered the room through the dark doorway, the torch flickered and nearly went out, and as the air struck the statue the candle lit with a twisting purple and black flame. 

                 "Quickly you halfwits! Blow that bloody thing out!" Malfoy shouted and, upon the urgency of his demand, Hermione, Ron, and Harry all leaned forward and quickly blew the flame out. "You must be stupider than you look mudblood! When is it **ever** a good idea to read Latin curses on eerie candles in the middle of a torture chamber?" Malfoy snarled at her, set the book down, and left the room quickly. It wasn't that he minded them starting a chain of events that would lead to their own demise; it was that he didn't want to be present and liable for it—not if he wasn't the one physically killing them.

                "What happened?" Harry asked as the three of them backed away from the statue. 

                "I'm not certain…." Hermione turned and walked up to the stand where the book rest. She leaned over the page and read it carefully—she couldn't make out nearly half of what was there as the writer switched constantly from English to French and then to Latin at whim.

                "We should go," Ron whispered quietly into the nearly empty room and Hermione looked back at him.

                "I agree." Hermione nodded, shut the book, and the tow headed for the door. Harry was about to follow after them but he was stalled momentarily when the symbol on the cover of the book caught his eye. He wasn't certain where he'd seen it before or what inclined him to do what he did, but he snatched the book, dropped it into his bag, and quickly followed the two out of the room.

                Harry hadn't any idea just how good an idea stealing that book away was until a good while after that particular day. He might have had an inkling more knowledge had they stayed to see what had happened in the room only moments later.

                A great cold wind spiraled down the hall just as the last of the students left the museum and snuffed out the flames of the torch plunging the room into pitch dark. The room, filled with such ominous silence, was soon met with more than just the thin crackle of magic that seemed ever present. The magic about in the air of the room, newly charged by the attempted duels of that day, took the thin, ghost-like form of Hermione before the dragon. The wispy figure mouthed words and a moment afterwards they were made undoubtedly real as the room filled again with the incantation on the candle.

                These words finished, the foggy apparition faded and the white that formed it was drawn back into the orb. The wind stirred once more and once more the purple and black flame upon the white candle was lit. The flame burned down until it hit the large knot of green thread and a spark of bright green flared up and released a pulse of magic. The magic reset the room—the glass from the vases and warped bottles went back to the way it was in the nine hundreds, the dust faded away, the sphere's light poured out over the room, and the triangle on the floor, now fully uncovered, lit up in bright white.

                _"Such magic here that ills my mind."_ The white, ghost-like figure of a woman in her twenties appeared on a corner of the triangle. Her hair was long, loose, and framed her thin delicately boned body perfectly. 

                _"Periceal, you do scry, speak now what in mind."_ A second ethereal woman, with short curly hair clad in a nearly tunic looking dress of provincial design appeared on another of the three corners. 

                _"So many in this world blind and blinded by."_ Periceal held out her white filmy arms and the light of the circle gravitated towards her.

                _"Blindly they should see us, for the most."_ The second smirked and turned to the third corner as the filmy ghost of Piper Potter appeared, clad still in her fine garment of silk and silver.

                _"A request you make of Pantira?"_ Piper asked with a nearly snide tone as she stepped down from her place suspended in the air. 

                _"Pantira probably would prefer to punctuate herself promptly, methinks."_ The light around her faded and Periceal smirked.

                _"Would you not suggest the same thing, Periceal?"_ Piper's gaze shifted to Periceal for a moment and then returned to the circle.

                _"We both would suggest one in the same."_ Pantira grinned and Periceal mimicked her expression.

                _"Would we but have bodies so quickly overthrown this world of mindless be."_

                _"Bodies of new acquisition or perhaps old forms tired and true?"_ Piper turned from the two malevolent looking spirits and glanced back at her empty stand. _"My book, they have taken it!"_ Piper hissed as she stared at her empty stand.

                _"What mean you taken?"_ Periceal asked and leaned forward.

                _"They, which they do you speak of?"_ Pantira craned her neck and stared at the empty stand.

                _"Blood descendants of our three,"_ Piper answered and held up her hand to silence the others. _"Someone comes, from above, perhaps a body I will earn today."_ Piper waved her hands in the air and there was another surge of magic as she plotted a method by which to attract some foolish soul.

                Up above, surely enough, there was a bit of commotion in the emptied museum. The three tour guides, and the cashier of the gift shop were checking out and headed off towards the break room when one of them noticed something strange about the organization of the skeletons in the corner. Of course, the redhead who'd been over there nearly all day agreed quickly to check it out.

                "You go on ahead, I'll be right with you." The redhead waved at the others and crossed the dark room. She drew her wand and lifted it up before yawning a 'lumos' spell. She reached the corner of the room and found something most disconcerting as she approached the Triad displays. "What's this?" She leaned over edge of the dividers and noticed that the rope used to hang the third of the triad had been taken from its spot. She glanced about and found it laying in the half-opened door of the dark hall, not two hundred feet away.

                "How did you get over there?" She crossed the room cautiously and reached down to pick up the rope—she heard whispers coming from down the stairs and she furrowed her brow. "Hello?" She asked and leaned through the door. "You're not supposed to be down there."

                _"We have her, away with this!"_ Piper whispered in a tone far too quiet to reach the redhead's ears but her order was obeyed—the three figures faded into the shadows leaving only the lit symbol on the floor.

                The tour guide walked down the stairs, rope in hand, and wand held out before her. Her brows knitted together once more as she reached the door at the end of the steps and found that it was whole and attached once more. She pushed on the wooden door, it swung open, and her wand abruptly extinguished itself leaving her in the eerie light of the triangle on the floor. She stepped into the dimly lit room and marveled at just how new everything looked—it was as if it had just all been purchased and arranged just yesterday, rather than nigh on a thousand years back.

                "What's going on?" She asked as she cautiously moved into the room. The moment she had cleared the door an icy source-less wind blew it shut. A great white light shone through the cracks in the door, and the scream that came from the room was muffled by the layers of ancient wood. Not much was known about what happened to that tour guide in that room, but when the door was opened again it definitely wasn't the same woman standing there. True, she looked the same, but her demeanor, tone of voice, and something in her eyes was greatly different from what it had been upon walking in.

                _"Your new body is perfectly conceived."_ The white form of Periceal smiled as the redhead stood in the doorway.

                _"Perfectly conceived in time and place,"_ Pantira corrected her.

                _"Perfectly shall it be changed to my conception,"_ the ethereal voice of Piper Potter came from the woman's mouth rather than her own, "In a place of more magic when we awaken with my book and broth." Piper's ghost-like voice solidified into the exact tone and note it had been back before she died, save for her appearance—something she would correct slowly as she inhabited the body—she was precisely as she had been.

                "Come, my girls, we should be off to see what has become of our Paris," Piper said as she lifted her hands in the air. Her natural born power—something that had faded from magical blood in the recent millennium—drew up the pair of black bottles that had been reconstructed upon their rebirth. The two bottles passed over the triangle, drew in the light, and snapped into Piper's waiting hands.

                Piper, clad in foreign form, with ways and wards of old walked up the steps and into what was once her home. She cocked an eyebrow at the displays that littered her old domicile and frowned when she passed her own bones laying, unnamed, near the back of the expanded main room. She crossed the room, uneasy in her body's current dress and accoutrement, and stopped before the large glass doors that had replaced that giant tree-shaped metal door that had once graced her home.

                "Laura, just where are you going?"

                Piper turned her head slightly and eyed, through her most ill-fitting glasses, the older woman who'd addressed her in monotone.

                "You have two more shifts today." The older woman stopped halfway across the room and Piper blinked.

                _"Maria! Help me! She's stolen my body!"_

                Piper turned slightly and glanced at her reflection in the glass. It had always been a problem, inhabiting bodies that still possessed souls, that the souls would embody and display themselves in reflections. Somehow, even when they were witches, they never seemed to realize that only the one inhabiting their body could see or even hear their cries for help. Fortunately, since Piper was carrying two other souls in the bottles from her shop, both Pantira and Periceal were reflected, in full color, next to the woman.

                _"She can't help you."_ Pantira commented absently and Piper turned back to Maria.

_                "Who are you?"_ The confused tour guide, Laura, turned and stared at the two next to her in horror.

                _"After that wondrous wonderful tale you wove of us you hold no knowledge of the weaving?"_ Periceal cocked an eyebrow and Pantira laughed a bit.

                _"What?"_ Laura asked in a sort of wavering voice.

                _"The spell in Piper's Book of Shadows tells of the descendants that will awaken us,"_ Pantira elaborated and Laura paled.

                "I'm going out for lunch." Piper forced her lips up into a smile but they fell neutral once more as she saw another, blonde woman enter the room from a door that once led to her kitchen.

                "Liar, you're going to ask that wizened old Dumbledore about the free teaching position at Hogwarts." The blonde smirked knowingly and Maria grinned as well—a rare show of emotion.

                "You always said you wanted to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, and what better opportunity?" Maria asked in her most spectacular show of lacking intonation yet. __

_                "You can't! I won't let you go hurt those children!"_ Laura shouted and Piper smiled again—so these were the children that were both descendants and thieves.

                "You've both figured me out, good work." Piper glanced back at the clouded glass doors and then leaned back on them. "Where do you think they've gone off to?"

                "Notre Dame I suspect," the blonde replied.

                "I heard something about divining bells." Maria turned and trudged back towards Piper's old kitchen mid-sentence.

                "Thank you very much." Piper turned and pushed the door open. She was pulled through the magical exit and watched as her house disappeared between two gift-shops—interesting spell. She turned around and her mouth fell agape slightly as she noticed two things. Firstly, the Cathedral she'd been so used to seeing was gone and secondly, in its place, stood the great, ominous, and spectacular visage of Notre Dame.

                "That, I would assume, is Notre Dame?" Piper asked as she stepped out onto the damp, puddle-laden cobblestones that still paved the square that had been before the cathedral. In the reflections she could see the scattered forms of Pantira, Periceal, and Laura. 

                _"It is. Please, let me go!"_ Laura pleaded and Piper ignored her.

                _"Perhaps, once we've our new bodies, we won't be away with you,"_ Periceal commented as she examined the ghostly form of her fingernails. She frowned and glanced up at the panicked reflection of Laura.

                "Perhaps," Piper chimed in idly and continued to cross the square. Though she was not half so imposing as she had been back in her original body she still had the grace and atmosphere about her to put off people who would cross within a foot of her. As she approached the main steps of Notre Dame she glanced up at the gargoyles and as she looked back at the doors she saw an elderly pair wearing simple black robes standing, in a most stately fashion, outside the entrance.

                "Pardon me," Piper spoke up loudly and the two looked at her as she approached up the steps. "Mr. Dumbledore?" She asked vaguely—had the elderly man been Dumbledore he would greet her but should he be another he could assume she was only inquiring if he was within. Piper never asked anything outright and rarely did she ever technically lie.

                "May I help you?" Surely enough, the old man with the crescent-shaped spectacles smiled and responded to her query.

                "I would very much like to inquire as to the free teaching position at Hogwarts," Piper said smoothly and hardly noticed the slightly taken aback look the elderly woman next to Dumbledore gave her.

                "The Defense Against the Dark Arts position?" Dumbledore's eyebrows moved upward as he surveyed her—she didn't seem the type to apply for an obviously dangerous position, but she didn't seem the type to be affiliated with evil either and the latter spoke heavily in her favor. Truly, it is a shame that appearances often are deceiving.

                "Indeed, I have always been talented in the general area and would much like to follow this particularly rare opportunity." Piper smiled and Dumbledore shared a look with the woman next to him.

                "We have another applicant already, not to mention one within the school wishes the position," the elderly woman addressed her rather than Dumbledore.

                _"You'll never be able to use my wand! You can't even show them your magic without a wand, foolish witch! Let me go!"_ Laura demanded as her face was reflected in one of the small puddles on the stairs. 

                _"Wands?"_ Periceal cocked an eyebrow.

                _"How magic has degraded thus, that the craft depend on so slightly crafted a thing!"_ Pantira exclaimed distastefully.

                "While I'm certain your other applicants are quite deadly with their wands," Piper paused and pondered a moment on the very concept—she found it disgusted her to her very core—and then continued, "I would be more than capable to educate the students on survival when disarmed." Piper wondered if that was the right phrasing but judging by the looks both the elderly woman and Dumbledore gave her, it was.

                "Wonderful!" Dumbledore smiled.

                "Perhaps you could return with us, teach for say a week or so, and give us an idea of just what you intend to do with the class?" The elderly woman arched an eyebrow and Piper inclined her head.

                "I think that would be more than acceptable." Piper smiled and blinked as Dumbledore held a hand out to her.

                "I think you know my name, Madam, but I'm not privy to yours," the old man said and stared at her in a most curious fashion as if he were trying to detect a lie. "My dear companion here is Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress, and I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts."

                "Piper, Piper Potter." Piper took his hand, shook it, and somehow restrained herself from adding in something about the _Court of Pentacles_.

                "Potter?" McGonagall asked shakily and her eyes widened in alarm. She glanced at the outwardly calm Dumbledore and he cast her a sort of null look.

                "Yes, Potter, name for an ancestor, surname from the family line," Piper said amiably as she pulled back her hand, "didn't have much choice in the latter, however." 

                "Well, Minerva, it would seem the impossible is about to happen." Dumbledore arched an eyebrow as he looked down at McGonagall. "A Potter is going to become a professor, won't Severus be ecstatic?" 

                Piper listened to them but she got the distinct feeling that Dumbledore knew more than he let on. He suspected something, or was confused on something, surely, but he didn't show it much. McGonagall was easier to gauge, she was simply a more expressive form of the old man. They both suspected her, somewhat, and that would make her job considerably more difficult. Perhaps the Potter line had diminished significantly since her time—perhaps even down to one. She knew there was one, because only a descendant of her bloodline could manage to remove her _Book of Shadows_ from that room. She'd charmed it long ago for that specific purpose. She would have to be cautious and move slowly after she gained their trust.

                _"To think, you Piper, educating wand-wakers to be White Witches."_ Pantira laughed.

                _"Such strange fate you bare fated of the strange,"_ Periceal commented slyly and Piper smiled slightly as she continued to listen, halfheartedly, to Dumbledore's instructions on where to meet them so as to travel back with the 'group.

**Author's Notes:** Well, I really, really like this story. Honestly. It's turning out JUST how I want it. This _will be_ a D/G, but it will be a while off, until then, enjoy the deep plot and intricate back-story. 

Again, I am in need of betas: volunteers?

And…to answer your question—the one burning in the back of that wonderful reviewer's mind of yours:

**Yes**, Dumbledore suspects her heavily of being a cohort of some misfortune. **No**, he is not an idiot. **Yes**, he knows the distinct rarity of the surname Potter. **No**, he is not just allowing her to work there willy-nilly. **Yes**, there will be more plot centered around this quick acceptance. **No**, it will not be an easy task.

Here's something for those of you who like…linguistics(?):

French, well what wasn't translated in the story:

1. Alésage: boring

Latin, made easy.

Sentence's intended meaning:

"Magical words! Acknowledge, [and] understand many times [and each of them] obey [the] words of three! Life from slaying!"

"Here lay [the] Voice of [the] Three." (Hermione's translation differs slightly.)

"Light this flame that [is] of extraordinary new life."

Individual words and translations:

1.  Veneficus: poisonous, magical; witch, wizard, caster of spells

2.  oraculum: a solemn statement, oracle, prophecy, words of a god

3.  agnosco: acknowledge

4.  teneo: to grasp, know, understand

5. atque: again and again

6. pareo: (+ dat.) to be obedient to, obey

7. vocis: voice, word; (med.) power, right, authority

8. ex: out of, from within, from; on account of

9. tria: three

10. vita: life

11. neco: to kill, slay, put to death

12. ico: to strike

13. conjunctiva: the membrane of the eye, itis: inflammation (Official HP Spell)

14.  hac: this side, this way, here

15.  evasto: (-are) to lay waste, devastate

16. aduro: to set fire to, burn, singe, kindle, light

17. ea, is, id: this, that; he, she, it.

18. flamma: flame, fire

19.  novus: new, fresh, young, inexperienced, revived, refreshed, 

(variant, NOVEL: unusual, extraordinary; news, novelty, a new thing)

**Disclaimer:** Come now. You should know that I don't own Harry Potter. I just away with him and his cohorts occasionally.

So. Review? 

The purple button calls to you….

[Review…review….]


	2. Notre Dame

**Chapter 2: _Notre Dame_**

                "Harry, just look at these engravings!" Hermione whispered ecstatically as she motioned to the intricate carvings in the stone upon the walls. Harry, however, was ignoring her and staring down at the cover of the book he'd snuck out of the museum.

                Harry glanced up from his book and looked at the great statue of the mother _Mary_ that stood before him. He couldn't help but feel a tad resentful and ashamed of having that book in this place, he wasn't sure why, but the peaceful, forgiving gaze of the stone didn't aid to wash that emotion from him. He knew he'd not seen that symbol anywhere before, but he was drawn to it. It was a most sinister force that drew him, he could feel it as he held the book, he'd not wanted it for good but for some dark intention that lay deep within his psyche. Something so hidden in the unconscious mind that even he wasn't privy to it.

                "What's that you've got there?" Ron asked as whatever Harry was holding was, most probably, infinitely more interesting than whatever Hermione was babbling about.

                "Oh, nothing," Harry said absently and tried to cover the book up, unfortunately Hermione snatched it from him before he could be away with it.

                "Nothing my eye." Hermione looked down at the book and her expression was split between shame and surprise. "I can't believe you bought one of these tacky reproductions!"

                "Reproductions?" Ron stared at the book. "Blimey, mate, you bought one of those tacky _Books of Shadows_ like everyone else?" Ron shuddered visibly, only a moment earlier he'd seen groups of girls writing in the names of all their friends and cheerful little rhymes.

                "Not…_exactly_." Harry turned away from the statue before him and bit his lip as Hermione cocked an eyebrow at him.

                "You stole one of those copies?" Hermione let out a small, astonished gasp but became all the more confused as Harry frowned nervously.

                "Again, not…_exactly_." Harry rubbed the back of his head and Hermione paled.

                "You took the book from the workshop?" Ron asked, mouth agape. Harry nodded nervously and Ron blinked.

                "Harry!" Hermione reprimanded him just in her tone.

                "Well technically it **is** his property, 'Mione," Ron reasoned and even though Hermione was flustered with the very concept she could do little but sputter about it being wrong to take such things.

                "Still!" Hermione finally managed to get a straight word out but her perturbed tone was punctuated most undesirably as Snape swooped up beside them and shot them all a reproachful glare.

                "If it isn't **too** much trouble, Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley, and Mr. Potter," Snape hissed through his teeth, the visage of _Mary_ in sharp contrast to his obviously dark intent, "would you much mind remaining quiet while inside such a hollowed institution?" The group muttered variations of 'Sorry, sir,' through shocked or gritted teeth and before Snape brushed past them to check up on the next group down the aisle he spotted the book. He gave Hermione a distasteful look, turned up his nose, and walked away just before Hermione shoved the book back into Harry's hands.

                "Harry, you've got to return that book to the museum!" Hermione whispered harshly and something deep in Harry's chest tightened uncomfortably, as if someone was suddenly trying to twist the lift out of his heart.

                "We can't do that," Harry sputtered and Hermione looked taken aback.

                "Why not?" she asked indignantly and Harry winced slightly as the shadowy fingers tightened their foreboding grip upon him.

                "I don't know…we just can't, not yet," Harry shook his head slightly and forced the shadow from himself, but it left him drained and he felt all too venerable even in this place of protection.

                "Hey, isn't that the tour guide?" Ron asked and pointed towards the doors. The other two glanced, momentarily, around Ron and, surely enough; there was the redhead that had lead them on the tour.

                "See! She noticed the book was gone," Hermione hissed quietly but Harry continued to watch the woman—she was frustrated as she glanced at all the students who held copies of the book. "You have to give it back or you'll be in even more trouble!" Hermione glared but her harsh look subsided as Harry paled.

                The redhead had looked up and locked eyes with Harry. There was something piercing, painful, yet familiar in her gaze. The frigid tightness that had been in his chest returned, tenfold, as she stared straight through him and grew only more concentrated as she muttered something. The book, for a moment, fought against his hands but something in him stilled it. When no reaction came from her words her falcon's gaze shifted and found another one of the students who carried a copy of that book.

                "I think, Hermione," Harry paused and looked down at the black book in his hands with some great fearful reverence, "That is the very last thing we should do."

                "Harry!" Hermione exclaimed in a subdued tone, but she was quickly interrupted as Padma Patil stumbled by.

                "Have you heard?" Padma quickly regained her composure and shot a pointed glare down at the carvings in the floor.

                "Heard what?" Ron, being the only one who seemed to trust Harry's judgment at the moment, asked and redirected the group's attention to Padma.

                "Did you see that tour-guide?" The lot of them nodded save for Hermione who was far too full of polite indignation at Harry's acts. "Rumor has it she's been inspecting the students and questioning the Headmaster about the Defense Against the Dark Arts spot."

                "That cursed class?" Ron asked, befuddled and astounded all at once.

                "Yeah," Padma paused and Harry shuddered a bit at the idea of that woman's eyes on him like that, all the time, "Mc Gonagall is all riled up and looks ready to rate her up and down!" Padma whispered excitedly. "I've never seen the old bat so taken aback and jumpy."

                "Padma!" Hermione, once more, exclaimed with that same polite indignation in her voice. "It is hardly appropriate to call teachers such things!"

                "Oh bugger off it," Padma said and shot her a dry look. "I've heard you talk about Snape and Trelawney!" At this Hermione fell silent and a redness came to her cheeks—though they wagered it more from righteous anger and annoyance than embarrassment. "Anyway, I'll be off—more people to tell, you see." Padma paused, mid-step, as she was walking away and grinned at Harry. "You bought one too, aye?" she quipped lightly and shuffled off.

                "Oh Merlin," Ron groaned quietly once the girl had left earshot. "Now you'll never be able to put it back without a fuss! Everyone will know you have one!" Only a moment after this statement, Ron's face brightened considerably and he glanced, furtively, at Harry. Hermione, of course, saw this supposedly covert communication and promptly struck Ron's arm.

                "I don't think I should give this to her, Hermione." Harry repeated himself and shook his head. The weight and tightness in his chest would not release him and seemed to grow more malevolent with every passing moment.

                "Harry! There is no reason—."

                Hermione was abruptly cut off at the bells above rang out and filled the cathedral with noise. Harry was startled, as were many others, and he shook his head to clear the nearly ethereal feeling of smallness from himself.  Hermione let out an audible groan as her previous thought was thrown completely from her mind and Trelawney moved to assemble the class and take them up to the bell tower.

                "Everyone in twos!"

                The mob slowly formed a line just before the alcove that led up to the tower. Students muttered and quipped back and forth about the lack of exercise programs at Hogwarts and the distinct need of a new field trip coordinator as they started up the steps into the dark, torch-lit corridor. Harry glanced about uneasily as they passed the statues and the windows, he nearly felt as if their eyes were focused on him—it was hard to breathe. He pulled the book up from his side to his stomach and it seemed to dispel the errant spirits from him.

                "I have not foreseen any injuries—but mind the steps!" Trelawney snapped as Crabbe and Goyle began to shove a pair of Hufflepuffs up the steps and she narrowed her eyes through her massive bifocals. The rest ignored her as they began up the stairs, but there was a quick change as the line was completed and the students were no longer strewn about randomly.

                The students did not heed the Divination's Professor, nor would they ever, but they did fall into line and utter silence as they noticed the two rather imposing figures that appeared just behind the doddering waif of a seer. Snape, in all his malevolence, stood with his arms crossed over his chest, peering at them through his hair, down the length of his nose. All but the Slytherin house quieted at this discomforting spectacle. It was the woman, the tour guide, who stood just beyond them, half in shadows that silenced the rest of the students—well, at least those who saw her there.

                Harry watched her as he slowly moved forward in the line. She didn't seem quite the same as she had been when they had listened to her—everything about her was off. The longer he watched her, the more he noticed it. Her green eyes glittered with an ill-omened impending nature about them, and, for a moment, Harry could have sworn he saw someone else standing in her place. He jumped and fixed his eyes on the back of the student in front of him as she glanced his way.

                Her eyes burned him; their intensity caused his chest to tighten and his back to stiffen as cold fingers of doubt spread down his spine. The book against his skin, for a moment, galled him and felt putrid, but he dare not move. Though her eyes lingered on him long enough to cause him to sweat and his extremities numb, her gaze moved on and away from him altogether as he stepped through the alcove and up the steps.

                Harry found that he was breathing more heavily than he should have been when he reached the top. His heart raced in his chest and his bones felt rickety and brittle as he moved. Everything about him had tensed, but why? Down to his very core, her gaze had twisted him up inside. Snape was looking at them with a far less subtle nature—why did she cause him to react differently? His mind answered for him.

                Because she meant to kill him.

                Piper couldn't help but frown as she passed through the great wooden doors of Notre Dame. The air inside this place was far heavier, far more stifling than it had been inside the Cathedral of St. Etienne. She could not quite identify, at first, why this place debased her to this nervous state, but it became increasingly apparent as she searched the building for marks.

                _"Hidden well are the wells of the mortals felled."_ Pantira whispered into Piper's ear and her reflection appeared on one of the tall, silver candlestick holders that lined the church.

                _"Weak they are, the art of talisman long forgotten by these wand-wakers."_ Periceal appeared across from her on another of the holders and, considering all these unnatural reflections, it was hardly surprising that Piper showed no reflection in anything she passed. It was an interesting talisman they had placed here to protect those in sanctuary from the powers of the mystic arts. It had, most probably, been a very powerful one in ages passed, but it was long diminished as the natural arts were forgotten for the quick attention of the wand.

                "Come out, come out, dear book mine." Piper narrowed her eyes slightly and grazed her vision across the room. There were at least two hundred students and nearly all of them carried books eerily similar to her own. Her eyes paused as she spotted a rather large group of them in the corner—a few of them were staring at her curiously. "We have means to do and my power is thyne." She stared, pointedly, with a particularly intense focus in her as she silently called towards the group to find her book. Nothing.

                _"Insulting, is it not?"_ Pantira asked with an indignant tone.

                _"They should copy such hallowed tomes and leave the original to rot."_ Periceal agreed and Piper's vision traveled across the remainder of the students.

                _"You'll never find the one that has your book!"_ Laura, the tourguide, shouted. Piper wasn't certain if she was trying to spur her on so she would be caught or trick her into relenting—it mattered not, however, as neither was going to happen in the near future. Piper ignored her, pointedly, and moved forward into the cathedral, her eyes scraping over each student as she passed them, her mind screaming for her book's return. She stiffened and silenced her call as she felt a strong, spidery hand clamp down on her left shoulder.

                "Can I…**help**…you?" She turned and the owner of the disdainful voice was even more imposing and guarded than his tone had implied. He was a good two feet taller than her, at least in this new body, and wore all black. He looked, to her, most remarkably like her brother—but he was not. Harrison had never been possessed of such spiteful, irreverent black eyes nor such a scornful air about him. His eyes cut into her and she had to fight herself to keep from flinching.

                _"Such a deamon's stare!"_ Periceal hissed and her figure shied away from the dark man's eyes.

                _"Guard your senses, I feel he bears inner sights,"_ Pantira warned and her reflection faded slightly into the gleam off of one of the candlestick holders.

                "I do not believe so," Piper responded cryptically but in a bland enough tone. He gave very little outward reaction to her response—his hand tightened on her shoulder a bit and his lips pressed themselves slightly thinner than they had already been.  She pondered, for a moment, whether or not to inform him that one of the students had taken the book from her home—the museum, rather, but this did not seem such a grand idea. To inform him it was missing was to give some of herself away. None had noticed for a thousand years that it sat there, why would anyone notice it gone?

                "Are you looking for something," he paused and slowly removed his hand from her shoulder while his other rested on a surreptitiously hidden pocket on the side of his robe. "Someone?" he added as an afterthought and Piper turned to face him fully. 

                This was no casual conversation they were having, nor was it the standard accusatory suspicion. This was a shrewd, inauspicious diatribe delivered through bared teeth by forked tongues. A dance around outright accusation, and in such a thing every word, every intonation, every breath and pause and moment stalled held meaning and could be the end. Piper knew this, as did he, and the air between them was tensed as they both struggled to appear casual and unfettered. They had been sloppy—both had given away more than they sought; he by asking if she was searching, she by pausing far too long for an answer.

                "Actually, perhaps you can aid me," Piper backtracked through the conversation and this took him off guard—his eyes seemed to darken visibly with mistrust. "I seek a professor."

                Her eyes were dull and concealed, but she could not keep the hint of amusement out of them, not without much more practice, as she saw a flash cut through his serpentine vision. His mouth released some of its tightness, but that was an intentional move as the muscles of his neck and face tightened in a way that lingered upon the imperceptible.

                "For what purpose?" He asked and his eyes remained locked on her even though quite a commotion amongst the students was beginning to erupt. They had been silent when she entered, probably a byproduct of this slinking, intimidating figure wandering about too and fro from the shadows, but without his direct attentions their tongues had started to slip.

                "I wish to know what materials I will need," Piper answered in her most perfectly sincere tone. Normally this act would have gathered some response from her coven but they were silent before this man's keen eyes and sharp mind. He did not slip in his game but placed a good load more to bear upon Piper's end.

                "You are no student, why would you ask?" His tone, perhaps, was more acerbic than he had intended, but still the point stood. He would guess well enough why she was speaking to him of this, no doubt he already had heard the whispering children murmuring of it.

                "I am to teach a class," Piper paused and she could almost feel his muscles wind up and tense to strike, even though she could not see it. "For a time."

                _"Don't trust her!"_ Laura's voice shouted in Piper's mind and, momentarily her concentration was shaken. He noticed—the edges of his lips curled, though the act was so brief she was not certain if it had been a smirk or a frown, and despite the widening of his eyes back to their normal state she knew none of their sight had been pushed back. If anything, he had placed more care upon her, all of him was focused on her, pushing her, and ready to topple her as a house of cards.

                "That depends, Madam," he stressed the word. What was that in his voice? Smugness? Severity? Sardonic amusement? Had he heard the trapped soul? Impossible. "How you intend and what you intend to teach." He crossed his arms over his chest, effectively removing his hand from where his weapon lay. "Defense Against the Dark Arts is hardly a class to be unprepared for. I suggest you think well upon this."

                The two shared a long stare as Piper tried to break into his head—she had not the ability to do such things, for that was where her brother's strength lay, but she was well enough at all else, and perceptive and cunning, that she assumed she could have done such things. Never had she come across one so adept at it, however, and she could feel his sense of superiority—it infuriated her. Her emotions had the better of her then; her resolve was fading, and her dissimulation here was forfeit for the moment. She wanted nothing more than to wave her hand and crush his bones—and he felt it. He stiffened and his eyes went cold and dangerous as her malice was made all to apparent in his mind.

                _"Piper!"_ Periceal hissed into her mind—she did not withdraw. But she did not realize that Periceal was not warning her of her actions, and, for a moment, she forgot the talisman in place upon the Cathedral—all too obvious it was that they had been placed there with designs to bar out those of her particular skill and caste.

                The bells of the Cathedral rang, clanged, and chimed in a flurry and orchestra of sound. The children could not hear it—they could hear the bells, yes, but they could not hear what purpose they served. The talisman awoke with the great ringing and Piper was drawn from her anger as they wrapped around her throat and began to choke her in the most literal sense. She stumbled forward, her power and ability gone for the moment as the great statues and paned windows drew her life and strength from her, and this man's great antipathy for her became all too apparent as he backed away and allowed her to fall, nearly bent in two, against one of the pews. She gasped for air for a moment, her eyes wide, and thoughts of death pierced her mind but were not of her own concoction—then, as quickly as it had begun, it was halted and her power was pulled, violently, from the grips of those great monoliths and the myriad of eyes in Notre Dame.

                _"He is gone! I would he draw his fiddlestick should he make such minstrels of us!"_ Pantira's reflection appeared behind Piper's in the dark wood of the pew.

                "Of what do you speak?" Piper whispered as her wits returned to her and her ardent discord was filtered once more and veiled within her psyche.

                _"He pray us sing, surely you too were baited."_ Periceal stepped past the reflection of Pantira and took the silvery, weakening form of Laura by the throat. _"What did you tell him?"_

_                "The book."_ The fading reflection of the tour guide could no longer form coherent words and phrases as she slowly suffocated in the shadows of Piper's spirit. She would be dead and irretrievable within the next two days.

                "He broke me," Piper whispered but stood up upon hearing this new information. "With it I will break him."

                _"Be wary,"_ Periceal warned her in a low tone as she took Pantira down deep into hiding, _"he would be your downfall, I have seen it in him."_

                "More than I shall be felled by the end," Piper whispered and stood up. She glanced about and noticed the students walking past her towards the alcove—two or three of them stopped by her and stared at her with uneasy expressions.

                "Do you require…assistance?" The figurehead of the little trio, a boy with a dark swath of curled, suave hair and dark eyes—who looked muchly to be a sinister version of Harrison, dear, treacherous Harrison—stepped forward and eyed her with a forced look of contrition combined with something near dubious approbation in his voice.

                "I require nothing, move along," Piper replied in a most clipped and supercilious way and the boy arched an eyebrow at her. "Feign I would be to think a student tarry at a Professor's request." Piper added in as she noted their distinct lack of movement and, quickly, she won the battle of the wills with the youngling and he sauntered off to join his group.

                _"It might be but eye,"_ Perciel's voice whispered quietly as it remained upon the fringes of Piper's mind, _"but I do see such a thing as hierarchy inspired."_

                _"You are challenged unto them and shall have them 'ere the end,"_ Pantira added and Piper straightened up before walking back towards the doors. She turned as she reached them and walked along the wall, cast in eerie half-light as the shadows fell upon her, moved behind that disdainful man, and watched the students with careful speculative glance. Many things there were left to do, but the priority, for now, was the retrieval of the book. Her book; her personal _Book of Shadows_.

                The students, silent, and bored, moved in pairs towards the door and Piper swept her enshrouded bird-like attentions over every student bearing a book. It was a mockery, a near blasphemy to copy such a hallowed thing and sell it to children who knew little more than how to flick a wand. But, Piper mused behind her dark intentions and her scrutinizing eyes, it was somewhat flattering—she had been so infamous, become so legendary that mothers had to buy their babes toys so they could diminish and shelter them as they slept. How amusing it was to think that such small things would dream of her in fear and bolt to the endless watches of the night only to see her power and be comforted that she no longer had it.

                It was a simple task to pick out a set of suspects among the throng. She would fix her eyes they with copies and some would react most nervously. They would see her, of course, some would stare back in ever increasing horror, some would turn away, and some would dash forward and up the steps with little thought or concern for those before them. Only ten she saw who reacted strongly enough to be so worried. She filed their faces away in her mind and frowned as she spotted something most spectacularly foolish. She stepped forward and whispered to the darkly clad man—he knew she stood there, and would not give her the satisfaction of acknowledgement.

                "You may wish to reign in some of those simpering students," Piper's eyes found the group of girls who were writing rhymes and mockeries of spells into their books with their quills, "soon I fear their common sense shall be preponderated by laughable curiosity."

                A smile twisted her pink, and soon to be darkened, lips upwards as the girls wrote something so absurdly volatile that it proved her point before the man had even the chance to make a scathing rebuttal. She felt him stiffen in horror and abhorrence, for the girls and she, as the book burst into fire of most spectacular colors and lit three students' robes aflame. Of all the peoples and professors within and without of the Cathedral, Piper was the only one who did not leap to the rescue of the girl—the children noted this quite grimly, particularly when her cold eyes found them and she smirked.

**Author's Notes:** I beg your pardon for making this chapter chiefly about Snape and Piper, but it was important to set up her feelings towards his abilities (for she knows nothing of Legilimency and Occlumency) and his distinct loathing and fear of her. They will not be good friends. 

Ever.

The next chapter will be set a while forward in time, when they are returning from the trip, Piper with them. It will be much more based around Harry and his feelings towards the book. There will be explanation/speculation of why the book does what it does—mostly from, you got it, Hermione—and a great deal of foreshadowing.

Forgive, again, the wildly differing levels of diction between the two halves. I did not do this on accident. Harry, being young, would not think, speak, or act on such a refined and high level as most of the more intellectual people about him so that is displayed when I write around him. Meanwhile, Snape and Piper, who are quite considerably Literati (and sinister in their own fashions), both think and speak on a much more refined plateau than Harry and that I wanted to show as well. 

I hope I didn't confuse too many of you, and I hope you enjoyed.

For those of you who like…linguistics:

Nothing new, save a whole bunch of English.

**Q&A:**

1 ) _Would Hermione indeed just read the inscriptions on the pillar, being the precautious person she has always been?_

I must admit…I did take a bit of liberty with Hermione there. My logic on the subject was she, having learned Latin to such a proficient level, would be more than eager to show off  her knowledge (as that was something she seemed to like doing quite a lot), and wouldn't have put much thought to the subject as she had only heard the tale once while up in the museum—a tale which decidedly omitted the candle and the reincarnation aspects of the history of Piper.

2 ) _How are Harry, Ron, and Hermione affected?_

Ah, if I answered that right away it wouldn't be a very captivating story, would it?

3 ) _How come Harry was never told about this past?_

Even in the canon, Harry is still discovering items about his past that he hadn't the chance to know previously. Dumbledore might have been reluctant to lay the information on the already heavy-hearted boy, had he known it. And, the curse that Harrison heard in the crowd on the day she was hanged spoke nothing of the book being sealed to only descendants of the three families (a completely separate spell altogether) and he might have been quite feign to open the book and read through it so soon after her death.

As for why the magical world wouldn't have some legend floating about concerning them…that will be explained later in more detail than I will divulge here, but you must recall that in the historical recount they omitted her name and the part the Potter family played. This woman was not well liked and the fastest way to diminish something loathed is to forget it.

As for the similarities to the episode of Charmed—I had originally written up to the possession of the Tour guide before I saw that particular episode (in syndication, I might add). I might have borrowed a few ideas from that one bit, but there will be no copying of the plotline, nor any of the other concepts, I assure you. No worries.


End file.
